


Nocturne

by wolftraptobaltimore (ogidni)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, M/M, Sad, What-If, but then better, hannibal's will fantasies, odd lube habits, will's a virgin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 21:07:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9460457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ogidni/pseuds/wolftraptobaltimore
Summary: The night before Will is set to betray Hannibal to Jack, he has a change of heart.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> Just 2 good friends writing about 2 good friends. I'm the one of us who doesn't usually post right, so I hope this works. 
> 
> This is just a what-if, supposing Will decided not to go through with the whole betrayal set-up.

On the drive from Wolf Trap to Baltimore, Will could not help but imagine a life that was different from the one he led now. When he had been working homicide in New Orleans, he could have never known someone like Hannibal Lecter. Back then he was still convinced he could live a normal life with water coolers and paperwork and maybe even a wife and child.

 

His hands tightened around the steering wheel and the well-worn leather covering squeaked his agony. Will was reminded of the many CIs he had encountered and fostered relationships with so many years ago. They were the only people who might understand what he was feeling now, and he wondered how intricate their constructs must have been. He hadn’t thought about it at the time, and it seemed now like a strange lapse in his empathy.

 

There was a version of events in which he had never suggested the dinner arrangement to Jack. Jack could have learned to understand it. After all, Hannibal had given Jack a precious gift for everything he had taken away from the proud man. Bella was the world to Jack, and Hannibal had kept that world open to Jack for a brief moment longer. Even though it had served the doctor’s purpose at the time, it was the mercy a man showed a friend. Through every slight they had all dealt one another ran the thread of a certain kind of friendship. It was transparent and knotted, but it refused to snap under the opposing forces of who they all were.

 

_The Lawman. The Murderer. The Double Agent._

 

When he parked his car in the wide, stone drive of Hannibal’s Baltimore home, he looked up in awe like he was gazing on hallowed ground. How many had lost their lives in this house? Will had lost his, only he was allowed a new one.

 

Will adjusted his coat, pulling it down where his bundled scarf had pulled it up and knocked on the door instead of ringing the doorbell. Hannibal would hear this faint sound, and it would remind Will of the pure danger that lurked beneath the doctor’s surface.

 

The knock echoed like a funeral bell.

 

Hannibal stood before the meal he had prepared for them, a last supper. A verse came to mind as the knock finally seemed to fade.

 

_Maestro, doloroso:_

_This is the light of autumn; it has turned on us._

_Surely it is a privilege to approach the end_

_still believing in something._

What if he didn’t answer the door? Will could turn away, and he could let him go. Maybe he would accept the signal for what it was, and accept an amicable parting.

 

Of course, he wouldn’t. Hannibal swallowed thickly and steeled himself, hoping that he had at least showered since he had last spent time with Ms. Lounds, whatever sort of time they were spending together. Even the astringent, alcoholic sting of that cheap aftershave would be a welcome reprieve from the lingering notes of her perfume intermingling with Will’s body heat.

 

He opened the door still in his apron, and nodded cordially as he invited Will inside and took his coat. He wondered if this would be the last time he relieved him of the worn out old anorak, and upbraided himself silently for his mawkishness. Gloomy sentimentality was not the proper mood for a suppertime social call, and even in times like these, it wouldn’t do to be inhospitable.

 

“Was your drive alright?” he asked, leading Will as always to the kitchen, where he would ask, as always, for his assistance ferrying dishes to the dining room.

 

“The drive was as it always is.” Will pulled a barstool out from where it was tucked under the edge of the counter. The next thing he did as he took a seat and waited for instruction was inhale the smells of braising lamb and roasting root vegetables in the oven. It was a fully composed scent which meant they were at the end of their preparation and ready to be eaten. For once, Will felt certain he would not be eating a human – he knew Hannibal well enough to know that the killer preferred a clean palate for a planned feast.

 

Will’s stomach, which had been filled with acid, began to settle. This meal was to be, perhaps, one of the politest affairs they had ever shared between the two of them. Appropriately, they would be dining alone. When he thought back to Hannibal in his office telling Will about the carbon memories of their two chairs, he had felt relaxed in a similar way. Just two men in two chairs passing conversation through molecules.

 

“I’ll try not to be too wistful, if you promise the same,” Will cleared his throat with a gentle smile. “It’s easy to get lost in a place that’s so familiar to us. Even when we know we’ll have to shed this skin and leave it all behind. If you don’t mind, I’d like to pick the wine,” Will pointed at Hannibal’s pantry, and although he knew he might be refused, he enjoyed the anticipation of possibly exerting a small kind of control over Hannibal. All the better if Hannibal was displeased by his choice.

 

“Be my guest,” Hannibal invited him, gesturing to the door. And then, a beat later, once Will had already turned: “There is a Sangiovese —” but he didn’t finish; whatever Will wanted would have to do.

 

Whatever his _guest_ wanted, he tried to correct himself. Already he found he was trying to prepare for the loss; it was the predator in him hoping to protect the human in him, but its protection always led to dissolution. In this moment, though, the predator was failing.

 

He brought out the decanter while Will browsed, and even that had an air of dolorous finality.

 

Meanwhile he uncorked a chilled sauvignon blanc and poured it over a small bowlful of sliced strawberries dusted with mint. There they would soak until the end of the meal; until the end of many things.

 

While Hannibal finished in the kitchen – removing a heavy roasting pan from his double oven and placing it soundlessly on the unignited burners – Will took a turn in Hannibal’s pantry. Everything was ordered by type, then vineyard, then vintage. Most likely, for Hannibal himself, finding a specific wine in a different organization setup would have been easier or more to his taste. However, there was something to be said about his chosen method of storage. It was laid out for courtesy.

 

Will had no troubles finding a suitable Sangiovese among the library spread before him. Some destructive impulse inside of him told him to shatter the rest as they had burned through Hannibal’s actual library the day before. Instead, he crouched down low to the floor and selected a Zinfandel with the plainest label he could find. Will tucked each bottle under an arm and placed them both on the counter for Hannibal to consider. He had no way of knowing whether this was the Sangiovese Hannibal wanted or not – there had been three – but it seemed thoughtful as a gesture.

 

“Life is full of choices. Ones we make and ones we don’t. I know as well as you do that choice is merely a formality in the end, but it exists for some purpose.” Will uncorked both bottles because it felt good to be wasteful, and set them down in turn again. “If only for the sake of making the world that much more beautiful.”

 

Hannibal watched impassively as Will opened one bottle and then two; one tannic, cherry-tart Sangiovese, and one jammy Zinfandel with an aroma of pink pepper – a novelty of a thing given to him as a host gift some years ago.

 

Either would do. Will wouldn’t know that; the decision was likely arbitrary. He seemed to want to make a point of waste, a gesture toward leaving it all behind, which Hannibal found painful. He smiled tightly, and poured the Sangiovese into the decanter.

 

“You have either good luck or good taste,” he nodded toward the Zinfandel. “Knowing your biography I suspect it isn’t luck. It must be your taste.”

 

He arranged their salads of pear and Roquefort while the lamb rested, and then plated it as well, his focus steely and pure.

 

“In some things, I have luck,” Will countered. He was not bothered by Hannibal’s comments on taste.

 

_‘It’s a courtship.’_

 

Alana’s teary face swam into focus somewhere behind his retinas, and just as soon as it cleared, an image of Hannibal running the flat of his tongue up the bulge of Will’s carotid artery followed. This thought was the first that did not seem hazy since he had awoken from a dream this morning.

 

“There we are,” Hannibal said at last, taking up three of the plates himself. “Shall we?”

 

Will took the decanter and last plate in hand before following Hannibal into the dining room where he placed the plate in front of Hannibal’s seat first before turning Hannibal’s glass and giving a generous pour. He set the decanter down without filling his own, knowing that Hannibal would want to pour for him.

 

The dance between them never ceased and each man hit his marks without tripping the other. Hannibal fixed Will’s place setting while Will fixed Hannibal’s. Hannibal retreated to the kitchen without another word, and Will was not used to the silence. Their chairs at this table quivered with want for more.

 

He raised his voice so that Hannibal might hear him from the other room through the open doorway. “When I was a boy, my father insisted we pray before every meal. He said it was my chance to show my mother I had grown up right.” Will picked each of his utensils up one at a time and placed them to the side so he could smooth the napkin underneath over his lap. “I prayed every day and don’t remember any of it. I learned later that prayers are best given in moderation if at all.”

 

“Jesus himself was unsympathetic to automatic praying,” Hannibal remarked, settling the rack of lamb down aside from their place settings. It shone as though lacquered among pearl onions and carrots and parsnips nestled in a net of herbs. Hannibal took up the decanter and poured Will his wine, careful not to waste a drop.

 

He unbuttoned his jacket as he sat; lately he had come to think of Will when he did that, this little act of undressing.

 

“Bon appétit,” he said at last, taking up his cutlery. He watched as Will ate. Hannibal was always at his most nakedly in need of approval when his guests were trying out their first bites of his food, especially Will, especially lamb, especially now. When he had observed Will’s expression to satisfaction and savored it, he began to eat as well.

 

“I am a little surprised that your father was religious,” Hannibal added at length. “I had never seen those impressions in you.”

 

“My father,” Will took another bite and smiled around it as he thought of how to finish. “My father was many things he thought he should be. He worked hard at being those things instead of being a father, but I was still his son.” As a therapist, Hannibal seemed to find these questions easy to ask, and Will didn’t mind answering them. People rarely wanted to know about his formative years because they envisioned morbid beginnings. When he said he grew up motherless in the deep south people tended not to risk the probing.

 

To Hannibal’s second comment, he replied, “I don’t give off those impressions because they’re not the ones you wish to see in me. To be fair, they’re not ones I’d generally wish to see in myself either.”

 

Hannibal thoughtfully chewed a mouthful of pear and arugula.

 

“Was your father Catholic, Will?” He paused, curious gaze fixed on his dining companion, as he took a sip of wine.

 

“He didn’t exactly put the mass in Christmas, but he wouldn’t have considered himself anything else.”

 

Will set his fork down and clarified, “My father was Catholic. I am no such...thing. I used to skip weekend mass and told him I sat in the back. He never looked, at least I don’t think he did.”

 

“But you are baptized, then,” Hannibal countered. “I find that to be one of the ingenious things about the Roman religion. Once baptized, you are always obligated to the faith. They must keep an awful number through inertia. There is something to be said for making one’s company almost impossible to leave, if one can’t count on others staying willingly.”

 

“Everything is subject to change. I don’t intend on becoming any more Catholic in the future – baptism or not.”

 

Hannibal set upon his lamb and thought he had perhaps said too much.

 

“Lithuania is a Roman Catholic country,” he added, with only a cordial glance up, “but by the time I was born, the Soviets had starved most of that out of them.”

 

At that moment, he was certain he had said too much.

 

Will felt a small stirring in his heart that he had fostered and suppressed alternatingly throughout this game that Hannibal had started. Perhaps it was the ortolan he had ingested. He thought back to the case of Peter Bernardone and the bird he put in that woman’s chest. Maybe Will’s bird, crushed wholly between his teeth, had come together again to be reborn inside of him.

 

“You only tell me about your past when you’re feeling something very intensely,” and Will could feel it too. “Are they feelings about the Soviets, or something else?” Any answer Hannibal might give to this question would be revealing. Will had seen an exposed thread and picked at the stitch.

 

Will had picked up on his mood, and Hannibal wondered if he had also deduced that his treachery was already known. He watched Will for a few long moments, contemplating.

 

“That’s decent psychology, Will,” Hannibal teased, gesturing briefly with his fork. “You would make an estimable therapist.”

 

He suspected they both knew it wasn’t true. Will’s curse of empathy would make him a terrible therapist, the kind prone to burnout months into practice.

 

_But what a lucky few patients._

 

“It would be natural to have strong feelings at this stage, wouldn’t it?” he probed, “Considering what comes next.”

 

“What comes next…” Will’s lips turned upwards at the thought. He had taken to grooming his facial hair more regularly since his deal with Jack had started. If Hannibal had been thinking more clearly, this should have been a dead giveaway from the start.

 

Now, he had kept to his grooming because it was a habit. Hannibal had explained it as inertia.

 

When Will finished the lamb on his plate, he served himself another portion with a soft apology spoken under his breath.

 

He regarded Hannibal with clear eyes and committed this moment to memory. It clashed with all the existing horrors he had tucked away behind his eyes. The times he thought of slashing Hannibal’s throat or squeezing until there was nothing left but a torrent of blood – these moments were banished until he had a clean slate which he engraved with this tableau.

 

“When did you decide that you wanted this for me?” Will cut his lamb away from the bone.

 

“When I met you,” Hannibal answered easily, without hesitation, “when we spoke. I thought about you that day, after Jack introduced us. By the time I brought you breakfast that morning in Minnesota, my heart was set.”

 

“I can’t say I’ve known it as long. But then again, I haven’t really known myself in that time either.” Will placed one hand in his lap and held onto the base of his wine glass with no intention of picking it up to drink.

 

Will finished his second plate much more quickly, as fast as he could, to satisfy the hunger burning darkly in the deep pit of his consciousness. He let the weight of Hannibal’s words sink into him and dared not interrupt the silence until it was completely necessary.

 

A want rose red and swirling like blood in water beneath his skin. He felt the heat of the fire behind him warming his body more than was strictly comfortable. Once he was finished, he took care to place his utensils neatly on the edge of his plate without making a sound.

 

Hannibal found his appetite lacking, and for lack of hunger, drank.

 

A thick silence fell over them. Hannibal finished his wine, having toasted to the truth and all its consequences. The last sip went down stinging and bitter.

 

“Well then,” Hannibal finally sighed, “dessert?”

 

He stood, taking up his dinner and salad plates in one hand and his wine glass in the other, and headed for the kitchen with a polite nod, inviting Will, as always, to follow him.

 


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comment pls.

 

There was mint-lime sorbet awaiting in the freezer, and the wine-soaked strawberries chilling in the refrigerator. Hannibal imagined they would be well flavored by now, soft and tart.

 

With the dishes set aside to clean later, he retrieved the sorbet and the strawberries and placed the bowls side-by-side, turning to fetch dessert cups from the cupboard and a scoop from the utensil drawer.

 

“A sorbet with mint and lime, and wine-soaked strawberries,” he announced, “for fresh beginnings.”

 

The end of Hannibal’s sentence rang sourly to Will. It robbed him of his taste for dessert and had him fighting down the urge to implore Hannibal to be anybody but himself. This would be unfair, Will knew, and the parts of Hannibal that captivated Will the most would likely be incompatible with any other mode of being.

 

Will saw the tension flit through the muscles of Hannibal’s forearm as Will pushed the dishes the doctor was preparing aside. His mind was much more lucid and recognized the threat, but his body pushed him forward to cup Hannibal’s face the way that Hannibal always touched his. His fingers twitched with a primitive delight as he felt the difference in temperature between the skin of Hannibal’s cheek and the skin at the crook of his jaw.

 

He licked his lips once and allowed his gaze to bore into Hannibal’s eyes as he brought their mouths closer to kiss. The tip of Hannibal’s nose tickled against the side of Will’s where they met and Will worked his jaw beseechingly, yet not too aggressively.

 

Hannibal’s heart seized and twisted, clenching with a terrible ache. He ached for himself but also for Will; Will, whose first time touching a man, he lamented, was as a Judas kiss. Maybe that thought would settle unpleasantly with him in time, Hannibal thought — and then spared a moment’s exasperation with himself, so romantic he had already decided that Will would live.

 

“Will,” he breathed, dipping his chin to catch the other’s lower lip between both of his. Then his hands, still chilled from the forgotten fruit and sorbet, found Will – one settling on a hip, the other framing his waist.

 

He pursued the kiss even as his blood heated beyond reason, drawing Will’s body against his as their tongues met.

 

“Upstairs?” he asked softly, as though uncertain, his thumb tracing the ridge of a hipbone through fabric.

 

“Yeah, okay…” Will consented nodding, as if he hadn’t been the one to initiate everything to begin with. His fingers fumbled with the knot in Hannibal’s tie. He couldn’t decide whether to pull it loose or continue using it as a lead to pull Hannibal towards the hallway with him.

 

He walked backwards and lost his footing enough to stumble into a low table with a lamp in the foyer. Its jostled shade tossed uneven lighting on Hannibal’s face and allowed Will to read the mournful expression beneath their sudden heat. Will threw a hand back to steady the lamp and hide the truth from himself so he could return to kissing Hannibal again.

 

Hannibal was glad when the light was dimmed again. He had imagined making love to Will in Florence, back when he had assumed Will’s fidelity. There they would have light, he had dreamed, sunlight through tall windows — golden, rosy, Renaissance light.

 

Presently he reached behind Will to steady him, and then turned the lamp off. It cast the corridor in darkness, only a few sconces giving dim guidance to the stairs, where Hannibal urged Will up ahead of him with hands on slimmer hips, slowly working Will’s shirt up from underneath his waistband.

 

When they reached his bedroom, he didn’t turn on the lights. He left the door slightly ajar, allowing a thin strip of dim glow to spill in from the hallway, and guided Will to his bed, still unmade from a troubled afternoon nap.

 

An impulse arose to demand honesty from Will. He did not. Instead he caught Will’s jaw in his hand and kissed him deeply, insistently, urgently, as though begging, pleading for something. Hannibal moved him bodily into bed and began plucking open the buttons of his shirt, spreading the thick canvas-like material away from warm shoulders.

 

Being handled agreed with Will well enough. He let out a soft huff of breath as he was laid in sheets that smelled strongly of Hannibal. The cologne Hannibal usually wore smelled weaker, and the soaps and shampoos he used held stronger. He could feel the barely there rolls of the wrinkles in the sheets and his head fell in an indent that had probably been created by Hannibal’s leg.

 

Will did not know what Hannibal’s bedroom usually looked like. Moreover, until his eyes grew accustomed to the very scant allowance of light, his imagination was all he had of this room.

 

The shirt easily came off Will’s body, and he balled it in his fist to throw it to the floor. He concluded that Hannibal’s tie should be thrown to the ground as well.

 

When he stroked at the swell of Hannibal’s throat, he felt an impassioned vibration that resonated all the way up Will’s arm to the nape of his neck. The rest of their undressing was not so well choreographed. He made a conscious effort not to tear or pull at the fabric, but it took Will at least five times as long as it had taken Hannibal to rid him of his shirt.

 

“Couldn’t be the first in this bed…” Will pushed his hands under the open sides of Hannibal’s shirt and felt his ribcage quickly expanding and contracting beneath his palms. “...might as well be the last.”

 

“If I had known you,” Hannibal murmured, “you would have been the first.”

 

The sentimentality of the words sang out to the songbird inside of Will and he was gifted the peace to forgive the other’s sins for the moment.

 

Hannibal’s heart was pounding. He had impulses, he knew; he was drawn like a carnivore to motion and indulged his curiosity with sometimes reckless abandon, but this came over him more painfully.

 

Will would be the last in this bed here in Baltimore. What a strange, sentimental thought. This mattress and frame would hold the vibrations of this moment between them long after they had been analyzed and destroyed in an FBI crime lab. The little fragments of foam and mahogany would go to their graves still containing this encounter, and so would Hannibal.

 

“It is a hard thing, to be loved,” Hannibal said, his voice now husky and thick. He was opening Will’s pants with both hands, trailing the teeth of his zipper as he parted it, then gently sliding his fingers inside to find the taut length of Will’s cock. “The Latin for _faith_ is _fides,_ which also means the chord of a stringed instrument. It is fitting,” he slid his thumbs into Will’s belt loops to pull his pants down his legs and onto the floor, then smoothed warm palms up the insides of Will’s thighs, “that _faith_ should be something both strong and brittle.”

 

He was hard, and he didn’t want a confession anymore; the moment for it had passed, and it would be humiliating now, and ugly. A kind of repose came over his wounded heart and he resigned himself to loving Will as he was, a predator of a different kind, elegant in his own right. A few people had eluded Hannibal before, but none had ever made him want to disbelieve what he knew so thoroughly.

 

Hannibal kissed the corner of Will’s mouth as he eased Will’s boxer briefs away from his skin. His hands lifted him up gently underneath, fingertips ghosting over Will’s sac as he rendered him finally nude.

 

Will bucked his hips up into Hannibal’s palm and enjoyed, for once, Hannibal’s tendency to luxuriate himself in fine objects when his naked skin rubbed against Hannibal’s soft sheets.

 

“Take off your goddamned shirt,” Will commanded as he undid the closure of Hannibal’s belt. Because it was supple, Will was taken aback when he accidentally stabbed himself with the prong in his haste. He tugged roughly, almost punitively, at the leather end and felt Hannibal’s breath hitch slightly for his efforts.

 

“I can only imagine,” Hannibal’s belt was yanked from its loops without any flourish, “which you think is brittle. The virtue, or the string.”

 

“You spend so much time poking around in the thoughts of others. When do you find the time to think of these things? Normal people,” Will punctuated this observation with a very resolute, “I think,” when he heard Hannibal chuckle and saw a flash of teeth, “say things like you make me want to fuck - make me want to make love to you.”

 

Hannibal wondered at the sudden change. _Fuck_ seemed natural for Will; it certainly didn’t bother him, not on those lips, not when the crisp harsh sibilance was carried through his sharp teeth. Maybe, he mused, Will had done it for his benefit; maybe this was _all_ done for his benefit, this performance, this little routine.

 

There was a politeness in that he appreciated, even though it wasn’t typical of Will.

 

“I’m always thinking,” he breathed against his ear, unbuttoning the remainder of his buttons and shrugging his shirt carelessly to the floor. He opened his slacks, fingers tangling with Will’s as the fabric parted and the heat of him met the still night air. “It’s clear enough what I want to do with you, Will,” he added, “I haven’t ever hidden that from you. In fact it...has been difficult to conceal.”

 

Hannibal moved over Will, stepping out of his pants as he slinked up onto the bed, one strong thigh slotting between the other’s. His hands found Will’s shoulders and his mouth followed to Will’s neck, sucking the peak of Will’s adam’s apple down to the hollow of his throat. Hannibal’s tongue dipped there to lap up Will’s sweat, measure Will’s breathing.

 

“I confess,” the sharp tension in Hannibal’s shoulders and the press of teeth to Will’s neck did not go unnoticed, “that I’ve had thoughts of us extending our intimacy this way.” His hand came up to soothingly card through Hannibal’s hair. He took pleasure in disturbing the neatly coiffed strands from where they lay and combing them out until they were soft again.

 

“But I’m not sure which one of us had the idea first. And then there were distractions…” too many to list. “You’re not the only one who thinks, Hannibal.” Will shifted to find the most comfortable position as Hannibal’s weight pressed his body flat to the bed. He hissed, displeased when this caused Hannibal’s knee to knock accidentally against Will’s groin.

 

“Every dream was just an inchoate mess of…” Will heaved and pushed Hannibal’s chest up a little for a moment so he could draw a deeper breath. “...twisted sheets and the most intense arousal – I could always see your face so there would be no denying.”

 

Will shook his head in defeat and returned to stroking Hannibal’s hair because it was soothing. “I never saw your hands though. I didn’t know what they would do. Maybe you felt it too and we fed off each other that way.”

 

Hannibal’s pace had slowed perhaps imperceptibly when Will said _I confess,_ but by now had picked back up again in full fervor. His hands traced the shape of Will’s body from hip to shoulder, mapping the indent of his waist, the planes of his stomach and chest, the rush of his pulse in his neck.

 

He thought Will was telling the truth. He thought it was likely that he did dream of them together, and that his subconscious did exclude a theory of Hannibal’s hands, but not because he couldn’t imagine what they would do. It was because Will knew what they had done.

 

“We have rehearsed this,” he reminded him, “in so many conversations with this exact rhythm. After letting someone inside your mind, this is rather less intrusive.”

 

His lips found Will’s throat again; he couldn’t seem to keep away. The scent of him welled there and Hannibal wanted to remember it. He took one of Will’s hands delicately by the wrist and brought it to his sex, brushing the hard thickness of it through his underwear with the other’s knuckles.

 

He had dreams too, of course, some exotic, some prosaic. He dreamed of fucking Will bent over his desk in the Quantico lecture hall where he taught about Hannibal’s murders, while all his students looked on, awed by his pleasure. He dreamed of performing surgery on him in a fin-de-siècle operating theater, opening his body and feeling, with ungloved hands, the hot, pulsing viscera. He dreamed of Will giving himself up to some great stag, like Pasiphae and her bull. He dreamed of sedating him with something warm and mild and making love to him slowly on the couch in his office, with rays of late afternoon sunlight blooming in his curls.

 

Never of this specifically, though the weightless reverie settling over him as he encircled Will’s cock with his hand; it made him feel dreamy, surreal.

 

“Have you been with a man before, Will?”

 

Will’s hands both came to the elastic waistband of Hannibal’s underwear and pushed them down over the round of his ass. He brought a foot up and used it to push the undergarment down the rest of the way to Hannibal’s calves where he balanced the arch of his foot over the muscle.

 

When he brought his hands back to Hannibal’s sex, the flesh was hot and heavy. He slid his hand up to the tip, and back to the base again, and reveled in the sound it produced. It was haunting and so much huskier than even Hannibal’s regular voice.

 

“No, I haven’t. I’m marginally surprised this has never come up in our conversations before. It seems like there’s never anything off limits.” That was a lie. Will was withholding information himself right at that moment, and Hannibal never confessed to any murder. The closest Will had ever gotten him to that was the planning of Jack’s. Will continued to stroke Hannibal’s cock. His voice softened to something fragile and he prompted Hannibal, “Tell me how it goes.”

 

Of course, Hannibal wasn’t surprised. Will had always seemed fairly blunt about sex. If he had slept with a man before, Hannibal was more or less certain he would’ve heard of it before, and he hadn’t.

 

Under ordinary circumstances he would’ve preened and made an evening of deflowering Will...would’ve planned a meal around it, Thai, he thought, each course laced with edible flowers — squash blossoms and peanuts to begin with, then orchids in the curry, violets in the coconut rice…

 

This would have to do. He felt the roughness of Will’s hand, weathered by use, not like the professional plump-smoothness of most police officers. Now more than ever he delighted in Will’s hard-won earthiness, the practicality and resourcefulness that only came from poverty, and that same perseverance. Hannibal supposed most of the beat cop underlings who had to step aside and hush when Will arrived at a scene soothed themselves by imagining Will was something of a weakling, effete and imaginative; but they were wrong. Will was a better detective and a better man, and every callous attested to it. He was perfect.

 

“Dear boy,” he murmured, “dear, sweet boy…” He swept Will’s hair back from his forehead, the gesture as paternal as his words. “I’ll stretch you, first, with my fingers...three, I think. With oil, of course, and plenty of time. And then I will penetrate you, Will, with your calves over my shoulders and your wrists pinned over your head. I’ll finish inside you, as deep as I can, then lick your belly clean.”

 

He kissed him, as if to seal the promise.

 

It felt good to be kissing again. Will recovered some of his own momentum and felt more empowered to drive their encounter further.

 

Will brought Hannibal’s fingers to his mouth, because he had no idea of where Hannibal would keep lubricant. It seemed a little too conspicuous for such a dignified man to keep it in his bedside drawer, but then again there probably wasn’t any better place to keep it. The first digit he sucked in hooked behind his teeth, feeling Will inside for the first time. He drew his mouth back and sucked in another two. Hannibal had said he would use three. Will took them as far into his mouth as they could go and tasted mint and lime. The realization made him laugh, and the laugh made him choke a little, throat and tongue spasming around the length of Hannibal’s fingers.

 

He pulled back quickly and licked his lips to rid them of excess saliva before turning his cheek to the pillow and breaking down into a coughing fit.

 

Will wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and apologized, “I’m sorry. Maybe we should go back down and finish dessert.” Of course, Will had no intention of stopping what they were currently in the middle of doing, and his voice was laden with facetiousness.

 

When his diaphragm had settled, he took Hannibal’s fingers back inside of his mouth more conservatively, brushing the sides of them against his cheeks for Hannibal’s benefit. He held the man’s wrist in his hand and pulled it back to lick at the parts he had not been able to take into his mouth. Then he pushed Hannibal’s hand down between their bodies and used his other hand to part his own thighs more openly. With Hannibal’s wrist still in hand, Will encouraged him to follow through with his promises.

 

“This is the part where you stop me from saying stupid things.” Will teased the corner of Hannibal’s mouth with flirtatious brushes of his lips and rolled his hips upwards to brush his cock against Hannibal’s.

 

“Go down and finish dessert,” Hannibal echoed, “I do like the sound of that.” He kissed a trail down Will’s middle, between his dusky-pink nipples, his eyes lingering on old scars. A soft, scant trail of dark hair began underneath his navel, and Hannibal followed it with his nose, breathing in the scent of Will as though to memorize him.

 

As though he hadn’t, some time ago.

 

Will’s cock was still half-soft, which Hannibal relished; he gathered the whole of him into his mouth and sucked tightly while the flesh was still plaint, rolling his tongue hard into the underside until it stiffened into resistance. He drank Will down in earnest, swallowing several times around his tip, pulling as though starving.

 

His fingers found their way into the cleft of Will, where those perfect thighs were spread apart in invitation. Hannibal felt the heat of him hidden there, where pale skin gave way to shy, pink tissue. A fingertip circled Will’s hole feather-light as Hannibal sucked him; when he pulled away briefly, it was for a little phial of oil tucked away inside the bed frame, where he kept any number of needful things.

 

The mouth of the phial was smooth and rounded. Hannibal took Will’s cock into his throat again and sought out his eyes over his heaving chest as he lowered the phial down between his thighs, trailing along the seam of his sac before coming to rest against his entrance. Hannibal massaged him with his fingertip a moment longer, then began to open him, working with the saliva Will had gifted. When he was soft enough to give, Hannibal pressed the phial inside and tipped it up, pouring.

 

Will frowned at the feeling. For once, his sensibilities – not Hannibal’s – had been tripped. He felt indignant to have the fluted mouth of the glass phial fitted inside the rim of his ass. Through the considerable distraction of Hannibal’s mouth on his dick, Will batted his hand away and yanked the object out of himself with a wince. He flicked it somewhere on the floor where it tinkled almost inaudibly as it rolled back under the bed. Knowing that Hannibal would be leaving this house one way or another over the course of the next day, he was fairly certain the doctor wouldn’t be too offended by the idea of oil staining his floor.

 

“The fuck are you doing?” The curses returned to Will now. “There’ve got to be better ways of doing that.”

 

It was Hannibal’s consolation that the sheets had borne the brunt of it, and not his rug. Even knowing none of this would last much longer one way or another, he still couldn’t countenance the ruin of a beautiful thing.

 

“Minx,” he scoffed fondly. “Another way next time, hm?” The words sounded hollow even to him.

 

Will shoved Hannibal’s shoulder in retaliation, but without much conviction. It was an exceedingly strange feeling to have the oil wet inside of him. His entrance remained closed for the moment once the phial had been removed, but he felt the liquid move inside of him. It felt like being weak and made him aware of this strange space inside of him that he imagined always existed, but was never felt until now.

 

He clenched and felt a couple drops slide out and down his skin. However, as he continued to clench, it became clear that there wasn’t really all that much inside of him because he could not push it out.

 

Hannibal set upon Will’s chest as he began to massage Will’s entrance insistently. There was enough oil there just at the opening, he judged, to stretch him; the rest was further inside, and would fulfill its purpose when he reached it.

 

The slickness inside made Will’s body feel molten to the touch. Entranced, Hannibal simply watched Will’s face as he eased his index finger inside him inch by inch, all the way to the palm, mapping the inside of Will in his mind.

 

“Next time, Will,” Hannibal murmured, still raptly observing his face, “next time will be different. We’ll have a little peace, then. Maybe you will find it easier.”

 

Will brought his bottom lip between his teeth and held it there as he allowed Hannibal to open his body. “I’m not sure how this feeling came over me.” Compelled to be as active a participant as possible, he thrust his hips back lazily against Hannibal’s ministrations. “In matters of timeliness, I have always been remiss. I’m sorry it had to be like this – you probably,” Will took a steadying breath in through his nostrils and blinked his eyes searchingly, “you probably had something else planned.”

 

His conscience itched at him and made him want to say more. It occurred to him, now, that Hannibal knew as well as he did what all their plans had really amounted to. Between the two of them, it had become increasingly difficult to hide much for very long.

 

He rested his hand at the back of Hannibal’s head and scratched lightly beneath the hair there knowing from experience that it should feel good. “If you tell me what it’s gonna be like next time, I’ll try my best not to make a mess of it.”

 

Hannibal thought. In that moment, with two fingers wrapped in Will’s needy heat, he was impressed by the other’s coldness. Will could make a superb killer yet, he imagined, and it burned him down to the marrow.

 

“Next time,” he said, and finally he was defeated, breaking his gaze from Will’s and instead watching his throat, “we will be in apartments that were once the upper floor of a sixteenth-century Italian villa. We will have a measure of peace, and I...will try to live differently, mostly for your sake.”

 

Will’s body had admitted a third finger, and Hannibal twisted his wrist, spreading the tight hot walls that compressed his knuckles together and seemed to pulse with want.

 

“There are many ways to live differently. They...are rarely better.” Will took Hannibal’s penis back into his hand and wrapped his fingers around it. He pulled Hannibal closer and whispered against the shell of his ear. “Thrust…”

 

As the two of them simulated the parts of the act as a prelude to the actual intercourse, Will remembered the first time he had seen Hannibal genuinely smile. It was always at his expense, but it proved that Hannibal had a fondness for everything about Will – even his faults.

 

“You’ll have to translate. I only know French,” Will flexed his toes as Hannibal tested how far he had gotten with his stretching. “And even then, I’m better with Creole,” Will elaborated the next part through raucous laughter, “which isn’t to say much because I’m probably terrible with that too.”

 

He quieted himself and gave Hannibal’s erection a teasing squeeze. “Can’t take me anywhere, really.” Will wasn’t sure if he was trying to make reasons for Hannibal or himself, but it made him sad enough to spill the first tears from the corners of his eyes.

 

Hannibal’s jaw tightened instinctively. There was a warming, tightening sensation in his sinuses, and he couldn’t place it for a few long moments. “Don’t,” he breathed, mainly to Will, but also to himself. “Don’t, not now. You’re very close, very close to being ready.”

 

He imagined that if Will had just let him finish, let him sheathe himself inside and come in the impossibly close core of him, then his transformation would be complete. Hannibal would’ve made another like himself, and would incur all that should afford him.

 

“Shall we finish?” he asked, still moving against Will and inside him, pressing his lips to a wet temple, “It is possible to simply finish it. I wouldn’t begrudge you the choice.”

 

“Choice makes the world that much more beautiful,” Will echoed his words from earlier that night like a skipping record. He set his jaw tightly in the most pained expression he felt he had ever made. Will’s breathing began to shake and it shook every different part of him out onto the ground like leaves from a tree.

 

“Every time I came to you, I wondered if you knew. I still wonder when you found out. It’s probably arrogant for me to think,” Will removed his hand from Hannibal and wiped his tears with the side of his index finger, “you didn’t seem to know until tonight.”

 

Will felt he hadn’t been designed for his role in this game between Jack and Hannibal. Each time he sat at Hannibal’s table he felt shrouded in a fog of curiosity and suspicion; it was the same each time he sat across from Jack at his desk. Both men felt in the depths of their hearts that Will’s loyalties aligned with their own, but knew that their opponent held the same faith.

 

Faith could be brittle when it cracked.

 

“We were never going to go to Italy, Hannibal. Lying is tearing me up inside. I didn’t mind at first because each lie kept someone from being hurt,” Will cradled Hannibal’s stubbled cheek in his palm and let his thumb rest against the seam of Hannibal’s lips. “But you...feel hurt by this, don’t you?” Then, softer, “I do.”

 

Hannibal seemed to shiver.

 

“What thou doest, do quickly,” he said, low and uneven now, unsteadied by stun and arousal and emotion. “I have known since we burned my notes, Will. I smelled Freddie Lounds’ perfume on you even then.” It was harder to explain why he hadn’t confronted him then.

 

He could feel Will tightening around his fingers, and he kept them moving just to keep him accustomed to the full, undulating feeling inside.

 

“The choice is still yours. Have you changed your mind?”

 

“I would never let you hurt Jack,” Will winced and reached down to still Hannibal’s arm. “You have to know that.”

 

It was a statement of deflection, something said to avoid immediately answering the question both he and Hannibal knew was being asked of him. Will brought both of his hands to his face and rubbed slowly. As he spoke through his fingers, the sound resonated in his palms. “I never made my mind up, so I wouldn’t have to change it.”

 

“There is a place in Florence,” Hannibal reminded him. “There are reservations. Arrangements. Enough for us. Shall I cancel our dinner plans with Jack?”

 

Hannibal’s tone of voice sounded strange to Will in that moment. He wondered why he had not noticed it until now, but he supposed the reasons for his ignorance mostly matched the reasons why Hannibal had not made Will at his ruse until just yesterday.

 

“Enough for us?” Will questioned.

 

He grabbed both of Hannibal’s shoulders and stared at the man’s face. Nothing moved and no emotion was betrayed. He had a suspiciously neutral expression when he should be filled with rage or sadness or passion. Hannibal was making an effort to look a very specific way. “Enough is a big word – implies there could be an inadequate amount, but we don’t need that much.”

 

Will tilted his head on the pillow and narrowed his eyes, “Hannibal, who is ‘us’?” His heart rate picked up in anticipation of the answer.

 

Hannibal’s gaze didn’t waver, though the image of her face flickered in his mind.

 

Telling him was such a risk: He might figure there was something in him worth fidelity, Hannibal reasoned; but he might just as easily figure that with her here he didn’t need Hannibal. A thick swallow shifted his adam’s apple in the column of his throat, and he withdrew his fingers gently, stalling.

 

“Will,” he said softly, as he took his cock in hand and fit the tip against Will’s softened opening, “I need you to relax so that I can explain.”

 

There was a certainty in just allowing Hannibal to push into his body and bring them closer. Will could not be sure that whatever Hannibal had to say would do the same, so he just nodded - giving his assent - and brought Hannibal closer, embraced between his thighs.

 

Hannibal felt the slip of Will when he finally breached his body, when the blunt push gave way to a smooth, easy glide. Hannibal gasped and then exhaled hotly, bowing his head and breathing deep.

 

All of Will’s breath left him in an anguished, choked rush. There was nothing particularly gentle about Hannibal’s insistent thrust, but Will preferred it that way. He felt soothing hands stroking up and down his flanks as Hannibal moaned deeply in his ear. The sound brought color to his cheeks and pleasure to something that was otherwise painful.

 

Will’s muscles went slack when his body gave up and surrendered itself. Hannibal hummed his approval and arranged Will’s limbs into the promised position.

 

Hannibal slung both legs over his shoulders to give himself more leverage. He could feel Will’s supple thighs giving pleasantly under the pressure of his chest and Will’s heels tapping lightly against his shoulder blades each time he thrust. One hand came up to affectionately tuck Will’s curls behind his ear and the other pinned fine wrists to the strong oak of his bed’s headboard. It was a divine contortion.

 

“In the interest of strengthening our trust,” Hannibal said, finally, his voice a touch rougher, “I would remind you that I never confirmed your theory that I killed Abigail. In fact,” he had begun to thrust, then, easy and smooth strokes that glanced over Will’s prostate, “I did not. She has been staying here as we have prepared for our future together.”

 

“Ah - Abigail…?” She was the furthest thing from his thoughts at the time and the admission had Will’s mind swimming. Will sputtered dumbly, and searched every feature of Hannibal’s face for a lie. He could not find anything aside from freedom and rapture. His fingers twitched as he desperately attempted to reel in the lure he had cast out with her name in hopes of catching Hannibal.

 

“Fuck, Hannibal, fuck! I’m - oh, god, I’m coming!”

 

Will’s body tightened fiercely. It attempted to curl in on itself and bow outwards at the same time. Although the motion was contained by Hannibal’s body above him, Will still thrashed like a landed trout, and he wondered when he had been hooked.

 

Hannibal suspected he had reached the extent of his composure; the friction inside Will had seemed to grow hotter and tighter, and he could feel his orgasm building. He held him tighter and closer, likely too tight, too close — when he cried out, pleasure spiked in Hannibal’s core and he thrust hard, possessive, almost thoughtless; he spilled himself inside Will as the other pulsed around him.

 

Will sobbed through his orgasm. Its intensity rocked him and beat him brutally against the shores of Hannibal’s body. When it subsided, he stammered, “I should kill you for this - bastard that you are...I should kill you for this and take her to our place in Florence. You’d deserve it, having us dance on your grave…” The words held no conviction, and the nuzzled cheek against the side of Hannibal’s face spoke more clearly of Will’s true intentions than any words could.

 

A strange memory came to Hannibal: _please don’t lie to me._ Will had been standing in his dining room then, looking at a man he saw as a ghost. How young he had seemed then, and how fragile, commending himself helplessly into Hannibal’s hands. Hannibal had lied to him then and he had lied to him since, but from that moment it had grown increasingly painful.

 

Now the pain had subsided. They were even again, now in honesty instead of deceit. Hannibal kissed his mouth languidly, then rose a little, shrugging Will’s perfect thighs off his shoulders. He thought he heard the joints click in protest.

 

“Stay with me,” he sighed, “just a moment longer, before you go see her. She has been desperate to see you.”

 

Hannibal let Will’s body warm him a little longer, the weakening pulses of orgasm milking the last drops of semen from him. He withdrew carefully, fingers parting Will’s cheeks, then laid down beside him.

 

“Sometime we should sleep without separating,” he remarked idly, pushing up on his forearms to lap Will’s cooling seed off his belly. “She’s likely in her room,” he added, an afterthought. “In the evenings she reads or listens to music…”

 

“I have no intention of seeing Abigail right now,” Will let his legs part loosely with a grimace, already feeling the beginnings of a soreness that would deepen by the next morning. “Aside from obvious reasons of visible debauchery, I don’t think I’m ready to believe it. If I go now, I’ll never be able to distinguish between reality and dreams. I don’t need any help driving myself insane.”

 

Will sighed, and lifted himself up from the bed once Hannibal had finished licking him. He stretched until he heard his back crack and settled back down while pulling a bed sheet over his body. He turned to face Hannibal and felt emotional exhaustion creep up on him. His eyelids drooped, and he scratched low on Hannibal’s chest. “I still can’t forgive you, you know. I don’t know when or if that will ever happen; it hasn’t happened yet. But…” Will conceded, “...emotions are more complicated and nuanced than that. Regardless of what happens, I think I’ve proven that I can’t be without you. Just as much as you can’t be without me.”

 

Hannibal nodded, following along. Now that he had will — it was sentimental and retrograde, he knew, but now he felt he truly _had_ him — he could relax and enjoy him, even in his tension and reproach.

 

“Forgiveness is a process,” he provided gently, in his cool psychiatric cadence. “Perhaps someday.”

 

With Will’s hands braced against his chest, he draped an arm over the other’s waist, and felt a nameless tension that had haunted his bones since his childhood slowly, tentatively release. He felt as though he were sinking into his bedding, and it was a pleasant feeling.

 

“Tomorrow, then,” he hummed on the tail of a yawn. “We will...pack our things. And hers.”  


End file.
